Reasons
by MindTemple
Summary: The chronological sequence of events that led to my first murder would determine whether or not I became infamous. Hannibal's thoughts about why he does what he does, and how it all connects to the ever-building temple of knowledge in his brain.


**Hello fellow Silence of the Lambs fans.**

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There are reasons.

Reasons why I do the things I do, how I do them.

People do tend to, let's say, twist and disfigure these reasons. Why? I have my beliefs.

How many times does the average simpleton witness a horror movie and actually believe what they see? Thousands upon thousands.

How many truly intelligent people witness a nonfiction story about a serial killer and believe what they see? Hundreds upon hundreds.

It may seem like a lot of people, all over the world, but if you add up the numbers in the thousands, it will always be larger than the sum of the hundreds. Simple math, no matter what the numbers.

See the pattern?

It's sad really... how some must resort to fiction for their sick 'kicks'.

It is also sad how the intelligent people must deal with them.

I wouldn't classify myself as either. I am not an idiot, nor a genius. Although some would beg to differ on both.

Discourtesy bothers me. How the debate on my status has died down over the years is a perfect example. It was rather rude to have such coverage over my behaviors now contained for such a long time. Now, after eight years in this hellhole, there is nothing. I prefer this over the newspapers and reporters hovering over the hospital. And they call me insane... they should see their rather outlandish behavior.

So what am I rambling on about?

I've been sitting here all day.

On my bed.

Hands crossed.

Eyes dry.

I like to think motionless. Some think this is because I am far too preoccupied thinking to move. Others think that I am too much of a monster to move.

_My reason that I don't move much? I don't want to._

It's as if I were in the Bible. If I were Adam, given control of all the fish and the fruits of the world, I would want no Eve to assist me. She was created only from me. God, instead has given me this woman. If it were not for this woman, I could not have gotten to the Garden of Eden. Oh well, sacrifice, sacrifice. The thing is, the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil is symbolically the Law. Out of everything else that I could do, I decided to take from the one thing forbidden. Did I want to? Yes. Why? Simply _because _I wanted to. I had then **known, **as the Holy Book puts it, what I wanted and what I did not. My fig leaves were not sewn together like they were in the Bible, however. I continued to eat this forbidden fruit. This was not because I could not stop. This wasn't because I couldn't stop. This was because I simply did not want to stop. The Police, the FBI all started to play God. They claimed to the public that they would simply help me. God is the being that is set out to help all those he created. The FBI, the foundation of so-called security in the United States, is no God. I find it amusing to see the hope that the general public has in their police and law.

I have been thinking about why I started to find faith. Why had God been my savior? The watch I had designed of Jesus was proof of just how much my love in God was existent.

Some may be lead to believe that I am religious because I have no where else to go to find hope.

_My reason that I am religious? Because I want to be. _

I was raised this way. I was raised to be faithful and I would stay that way out of respect for my family. My family was, after-all, the entire reason I was who I was.

Put it this way. If I were to be put in the Romeo and Juliet scenario, I would be Romeo. The Juliet? My family. When I found out that my Juliet had died, I had tried to kill myself. In the process, I would have killed Paris, which is symbolically every person who disgraces me. I thought my family had been killed, the poison supposedly taken its course. I then proceeded to kill myself, symbolically, by seeking revenge on those who insult me. My family was resurrected, however. Inside my heart, at least. Inside me, my family was very much alive. That was why I was religious. I felt that if I was not, then they would go away. That the inside of my heart and my temple in which I constructed in my mind would now be empty because my faith in God was emptied.

Some may believe that I chose cannibalism and crime because my heart is only of stone and thirsts for blood and hungers for flesh. Some say that it's because I felt I needed to cause a new kind of pain upon the world.

_The reason why my tongue has tasted flesh? Because the events that have happened, have happened. They cannot be reversed._

The chronological sequence of events that led to my first murder would determine whether or not I became infamous. I knew this, and I knew it well. It was at the moment in which I realized this, that I had tasted my first strip of flesh. They had to pay.

Those who had done wrong-doings needed to be punished. The things that were rude and morally unacceptable in which the police did not take care of, needed to be taken care of. No one else would do it, so I had to.

I had to avenge my family.

I had to avenge my love.

To this day, as I lay down on my cot, hands crossed and eyes dry, I feel I need to avenge my loves. The ones I had lost to the acts of cruelty so blatantly placed upon my life. It was horrible, really. It was bastardly. But when other stood by, I took action. The temple I had built inside my mind was becoming only more and more prosperous.

"Doctor Lecter." a voice had forced me out of my thought.

I sighed. I did not talk to these people. These people only spoke to me. There was one exception, though, this particular man.

"Why, hello there, Barney," I sat up at the broad man behind the glass, "what has gotten you so flustered?"

Barney had the look that people always had when they came to see me. That definite look of fear that they so desperately tried to hide. They figured I could smell it. Perhaps they were right... there was always a certain smell that visitors brought with them. Barney, in this case, looked nearly as flustered as the reporter who could not find his pen a few years back. Oh, how infidels and idiots entertained me.

"You scheduled to have a vis'tor," the African American man said blankly. All in my presence, I believed, were told to speak in a drab tone. Perhaps this was for my benefit, perhaps for the idiots around me in the surrounding cells.

"A visitor? How fascinating," I paused to sit up in my bed, my eyes never leaving Barney's, "how very fascinating indeed. What is his business here, if I may be so presumptuous of you to ask."

Barney swallowed. I could hear it. I could see his Adam's apple bob, even through the fold in his neck. His skin contrasted noticeably with the bright white shirt. I was always annoyed by his 'twang' that plagued him. It made him seem so less intelligent, when he was a very smart man. He always made a point to pronounce my name very precisely, which I found appeasing. "_Her, _Dr. Lecter. Your visitor is from the FBI, and she'd like to ask you some quest'ns."

I smiled a small grin at this. My head tilted by habit as I thought. "A woman? Intriguing." I stood up now, my steps slow. I wouldn't want to alarm the man on the other side of the glass by moving too fast.

"You'd best behave, Doctor. I know you will, but Crawford _requests _that I remind you ."

I remembered the day that I hassled him because of his lower-intelligence speaking. Continuing with my previous annoyance, it only grew the more he spoke, that drawl that he possessed. I know in myself that it could be much worse, but I still taunted him. Calling him from the ghetto and how his voice made him seem a southerner just, didn't seem to push his buttons. He's gotten better at it, at least. Maybe that's why he and I are more friendly towards each other... he hasn't been as phased by my probing as all others.

I then looked to my drawings. My mind would focus on things differently with a woman around. I wondered what she looked like, and why they picked her to visit me. Perhaps those at the FBI figured that she would 'crack', as they say, me easier if she was of the opposite sex. I wondered if they were right. Such oddity, such oddity.

"I'm gonna set a chair out for 'er. She gonna be here in a half hour or so. Do ya want me to get the TV for you in the meantime, Dr. Lecter? You got yourself an hour extra time 'cuz you have behaved," Barney had began to relax. For some reason, he was one to change the subject on a moment's notice. Conversations begin that way.

"I would prefer to collect my thoughts. Thank you, Barney," I smiled at him, rare for me. He nodded and turned away as I stood in the same position, posture perfect.

I could hear his footsteps on the stone floor fading away until the steel door opened and closed. It was like counting the seconds of the day, adding up to the minutes that created the hours. It was much like plucking away the thorns of a rose: painful and tedious, yet payed off in the end.

The seconds that would count down until my visitor arrived.

I returned to my thoughts but I would not submerge myself with my mind. I would look at my drawings and study them. What I had seen to create that drawing. The story behind each was just a journey into my temple, but not building anything.

_The reason why I think so much? Because there in no torture worse than letting yourself become bored and limit the growth of your mind._

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**Hope you liked it!**


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